


honor thy father

by orphan_account



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-20
Updated: 2016-05-20
Packaged: 2018-06-09 13:00:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6908251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kylo sex-tortures Han.</p>
            </blockquote>





	honor thy father

Han wakes up. That's the first thing that happens, and the last thing he expected- okay, he'd havc no way of knowing it if he didn't wake up, but he remembers having that familiar feeling that, yeah, this time it's the last of everything, his last breath, his last mistake, his last blurred glimpse of life. He wakes up with a pain in his chest like nothing he's ever felt before and something endlessly sinking-soft under his sore body. It's a bed, he's in a bedroom, a big fancy one reddishly suffused with dim boudoir light, and Kylo Ren's mask leering at him from a niche in the opposite wall. Which means that Kylo Ren isn't in it, which means that Kylo Ren is Ben, is the son he remembers and grieves for, which is why Han is grateful for the mask when it covers that strange and familiar and much-beloved face. When the harsh growl of the modulator obscures that voice, which is the voice of the boy he remembers.

“Han Solo,” says the voice; light, amused, piercingly unadorned. Ben is here somewhere. Ben is near him, Ben's long fingers are touching his face, a lingering mockery of what Han thought would be his dying caress, when he reached out to touch his son one last time.

“Ben,” he says. “Ben. You killed me.”

“It wasn't my intention. I told you I need your help. I'm still your son, aren't I? Ben. You called me Ben.”

“All right, quit wasting time, we need to--” Han tries to sit up, is choked with pain, falls back again, his chest burning. “I'll help you, we'll go home together, but--”

“Don't waste your strength, old man. You'll need it.” There's that mocking tone again, that crooked-toothed smile, Ben's hand taking hold of Han's chin and wagging it playfully, back and forth. “You're my prisoner now.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I've waited such a long time for this. For the chance to show you what you've done, what your greed and perversion have made of poor little Ben Solo. We killed him together, you and I. That innocent boy didn't stand a chance.”

“Look, Ben. You're not making any sense. Just let me--”

“Enough.” Ben's fingers push into his mouth, and Han gasps, tries to pull away, finds his head held firmly in his son's leather-gloved grasp. “It's time I showed you. Isn't this what you've wanted all along? In your dreams, in your most treasured private fantasies, did you imagine it? Did you want me like this?”

“Get off me, will you?” Han grasps Ben's wrist, feels the strong steady beat of his pulse somewhere underneath the layers of slick dark skin. Shining, smooth, sleek as machinery, but Han knows that the flesh and bone and blood of his own body-- the flesh Leia made, the bones she carried and bore- is there, hidden, just beneath the surface.

Han wrenches himself free of Ben's hands, breathes as deeply as he can with his chest being held in the searing-hot vise grip of the pain that still racks his body; pain without a focal point or an easily identifiable source, but he knows he has to bite down on it, hold himself together if he has any plans of surviving this. Ben's still grinning, and the gleam of his crooked teeth is too fierce and too familiar and Han thinks that he could deal with this if Ben would just put the mask back on. He's been tortured before, would find it easy to tell himself and maybe even eventually believe that this Kylo Ren is just another anonymous First Order stooge, with a face underneath his mask that Han doesn't know like he knows his own sorry-ass reflection in the mirrored panels on the wall across the room.

“Don't do this.” Han's not begging, not quite yet, but Ben's crouching over him, leaning intently over his immobilized body in a way that suggests-- no, he is, he purses his lips and looks thoughtful, concentrates, eases slow delicate fingertips under the waistband of Han's trousers and his head drops lower, his pink lips parting and Han tries to sit up and feels his ribs squeeze in on his heart like they might collapse.

“Ben,” he says, “I don't want this.” His son watches him impassively, gloved fingers raised to his lips. Full lips and high clean cheekbones, the vaguest shadow of Anakin's features; he looks nothing like me, Han remembers thinking, and he's thinking it again now, as if there's any solace in it. As if he can pretend that Ben is just some dark-eyed stranger in a bar, the kind of pretty boy who'd caught his eye more than once over the years. As if he's not about to receive a blowjob from his own actual fucking son.

“That's a lie, isn't it? I know what you want. What you've been reduced to. Years of loneliness, of longing. Turning to whores for comfort. All your dark hiding places in the farthest seediest corners of the galaxy, and you thought no one would ever know, but you were looking for me all that time, weren't you?”

“You're my son. Of course I wanted to find you.”

“What else did you want?” Ben takes his time peeling Han's trousers down past his knees, exposing him to an artificial atmosphere that seems suddenly freezing cold, and Han finds himself unable to even attempt to haul himself upright against the great weight that's pressing down on him, unable to fight back at all and Ben takes Han's cock in his mouth with gentle and practiced ease, like he's done this a thousand times. And, incredibly, that's not the end of it, although Han feels as if he could die of shame, and he'd always suspected that finding his son would be orders of magnitude worse than losing him in the first place but there's no way he could have predicted this.

“I don't know what you're talking about, Ben. This isn't going to work.” His voice sounds weird, panicked and disconnected like it's coming from somewhere outside of him, but the fact that at least he can still talk is a tiny relief.

“I never looked like you, did I? I couldn't be your own flesh and blood. You could justify it to yourself. Just another pretty boy without a family. Alone, anonymous. Don't worry, Han Solo, I could never hate you more than you hate yourself.”

“You're not him. You're not my son.” Han is distantly aware of sweat pouring down his face, despite the cold of his prison, as he struggles against the unseen force holding him captive. Not struggling is unthinkable, he can't just close his eyes to this and wait for it to be over, but whatever strength he still has is waning fast and all his futile thrashing seems to be proving Ben's point; Han protests too much, he is what he's accused of being. There was a time (only once, he thinks, twice at the most) when his grief for his son combined with his persistent loneliness boiled over into something like a sexual longing and he'd paid a pretty hooker with dark eyes and fair skin to suck his dick. Like it was some kind of profane ritual, some reverse-psychology way of getting Ben to come back to him. And now, with Ben's mouth actually wrapped around him, what can he do but condemn himself?  
“I've never been your son.” The worst part is seeing how Ben relishes this, how he closes his eyes and hums to himself, how he sways slowly back and forth and revels in the pain he's causing Han; that he, uniquely, alone among everyone in the universe, is in a position to cause him. And then there's the thought that Han deserves this perfectly calibrated torture, that he's brought it on himself.


End file.
